


Black Hole

by Electra_S



Category: Almost Human (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electra_S/pseuds/Electra_S
Summary: Several times over, Dorian has offered to accompany me to a bar to watch me drink, but I declined every time. I am already the pariah of the precinct, and I guess the situation wouldn’t become any easier if …
Relationships: Dorian/John Kennex, John Kennex & Original Character(s)
Kudos: 15





	Black Hole

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to MobiusStripper, my patient and helpful beta.

“Synthetic calibration incomplete.”

The annoying beep and flat-voiced audio message from my cybernetic right leg jolt me out of my musings as I hang over a glass of bourbon, admiring the liquid’s amber color and carefully studying my surroundings over the rim of the jar. This is a place you certainly wouldn’t find in the yellow pages, near the illegal clinics where mental scrubbing and obscure nanobot plastic surgeries are performed. I look around me, seeing female sexbots leaning in the corners. They wouldn’t mind my leg stump, would they, but I dislike them anyway. They look so very much like sexbots, and they’re programmed to be dumb and predictable, only telling you what you want to hear, although I have to acknowledge that most guys probably wouldn’t seek their company for the sake of sophisticated conversation.

Moreover, they aren’t quite what I am looking for. 

Several times over, Dorian has offered to accompany me to a bar to watch me drink, but I declined every time. I am already the pariah of the precinct, and I guess the situation wouldn’t become any easier if … 

Nobody knows, nobody needs to know that under my bed, I keep a brand new portable android charging device, which I hide the way other people hide their precious collection of smut. Buying stuff I don’t need is one financial sin I’ve committed this month, and it looks like I’m hellbent on committing another, or probably the very same one, depending on how you look at it. 

With a small pang of conscience considering Dorian, which I quickly dismiss as sentimentality, I turn towards the bartender, waving a credit stick charged with 2,000 bitcoins in his direction. “Listen, that’s not quite what I’m looking for,” I say, pointing at the female sexbots around. 

The barkeep leans over the polished wooden bar and turns his head close to mine, listening to me mumbling. “Ah, real feelings you want,” he says with a heavy accent I can’t quite figure out, “real emotions. Difficult to get. All gone for scrap.”

Frowning, I wave the credit stick over my smartwatch, and confirm the action with my fingerprint. “3,000 bitcoins”, I say exasperatedly and dangle it before his eyes as a tease, like a carrot before a mule. 

“Special request,” he replies, self-satisfied, with a greedy smile.“4,000 I want. 4,000. Very expensive.”

“3,500,” I say with resignation. “My last word.”

“Deal.” The bartender turns around and calls towards a small coop, from which a black man emerges carrying a scrubbing brush and a cleaning bucket. The man looks up, and my heart skips a beat as I notice his shining blue eyes. But then I see the despondency in them, and this moves me so deeply that I can feel it down in my guts. One second later, I have myself under control again, and I blame it on my PTSD, my momentary weakness and the alcohol.

“Hey, Synthie, no cleaning.”

The DRN looks puzzled as he is being bossed around by the barkeeper. “Customers,” the barkeep tells him with a tilt of the head towards me. “Move, wirehead.”

“Hi, do you want me to watch you drink?” The DRN puts away his cleaning equipment and approaches me slowly, studying me carefully with a questioning look in his eyes. 

“Why not,” I reply and offer him the bar stool next to me. “Do you have a name?”

“DRN-0167.”

“That’s your real name?”

“Raphael,” he says, with blue lights dancing on his cheekbone. “It’s Hebrew. The angel of healing.” 

“Okay, Raphael. I’m John.”

“That’s your real name?” the DRN asks and I can’t help chuckling. 

“Care to dance?” Raphael asks me in a friendly tone. 

I shake my head, pointing at my incompletely calibrated leg. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You know, I haven’t had enough time yet to get used to this. At parties, I’m the buzz-killer. I’m always the one getting stood up.”

“Okay, we also can just sit and talk,” Raphael offers reassuringly, only to catch me completely off-guard in the next moment. “How long has it been since the accident?”

“You know, the only thing that I resent even more than dancing is talking,” I blurt out before thinking. I witness Raphael stunned into sudden silence by my reaction. “Why don’t we go upstairs?” I finally suggest, trying to break the uneasy silence between us. Raphael agrees, and we walk up the creaking stairs to a room on the first floor, my cybernetic leg still protesting at every step. “Sorry, I didn’t mean …,” I say clumsily. “I mean, do you have real emotions?”

Raphael answers in the positive.

“Then how can you do this job?”

“You mean cleaning?”

“Yeah, cleaning,” I say.

  
  


***

  
  


There is not much to be seen in Raphael’s room - just a huge bed and some old wooden furniture - and the room’s not much bigger than the one in the back of my apartment that Dorian had wanted. On Raphael’s nightstand, there are a couple of used books, among them a well-thumbed and worn paperback copy of _Blade Runner_ , one of the few books that I’ve actually read. “Not the best prospects,” I murmur, considering the book’s cruel ending.

“You like the book? I’ll give it to you,” Raphael offers, but I decline. After just spending 3,500 bitcoins for a single night, I actually don’t have the heart to deprive an android of his meager and very likely illegal possessions. “Take it,” Raphael says, “because, when they find it, they will take it from me anyway.”

“Do androids dream?”, I say turning towards him, studying the book cover. “What do you dream of, Raphael?” 

Raphael closes his eyes, and I kiss him. The taste is a bit off, different from what I expected, but all of a sudden, this perception throws me back into all-cop mode, as there is actually a rule saying that as a covering for the bodies of Synthetics, genuine human skin is not allowed. I think about how regrettable this is while I am slowly stripping Raphael off his janitor’s uniform, rubbing my palms on his chocolate-brown nipples and admiring his smooth dark skin.

Then, wanting to sit down on his bed in order to relieve my leg, I let go of him and just let myself slump backwards. Raphael follows my motion, kissing and teasing me, until I suddenly sit up, alerted, seeing him kneel before me, feeling his hand on my right upper leg. 

“Do you want me to remove … this?”

“No”, I say sharply. I already have trouble looking at myself in the mirror with that prosthesis, I can’t stand others seeing me with it, let alone touching me there.

Suddenly, there is a huge explosion out on the hallway, blowing the shabby door to Raphael’s room off its hinges. In a split second, Raphael throws himself over me, between the door and me, saying something I can barely hear over the ringing in my ears. 

“You know, I always dream that somebody would come and rescue me, John,” he says. 

And then I watch his eyes go dim and the last thing I ask myself is “Why is it always me who seems to attract disasters?” before my mind sinks into darkness, and I can’t help the feeling that for whatever reason, the DRN’s last words could as well qualify as my own. 

****

  
  


I awake to the sight of familiar blue eyes gazing into my own. 

“Raphael?” I whisper.

“Who is Raphael?”, the DRN asks, with confusion in his eyes. “John, don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Dorian. Your partner?”

From the other side, Maldonado is studying my face. “John, do you know where you are?” she states firmly. “You are in St Philip’s hospital. John, you’ve been a victim of an ALF terrorist attack.”

“ALF? The Animal Liberation Front?”

“No, the Android Liberation Front,” Maldonado says, waiting for the words to sink in. “The good news is that you’re not injured, John. We found the remains of an android who must have shielded you with his body.”

“In a perfect application of Asimov’s Laws.” The voice of Rudy, the precinct’s android technician. 

“What were you doing in the Black Hole anyway?” Maldonado asks in decidedly displeased tone. 

I groan. “Investigating.” 

“Then why did you go without the prescribed android protection, in yet another violation of the regulations?” Maldonado again.

“Because I was there off-duty,” I say. 

I wait for a sarcastic remark from Dorian, but instead Maldonado answers, “Then, maybe Dorian should protect you in your free time, too,” before she resolutely turns her back on me and steps out into the hallway, the clacking sound of her high heels slowly fading away.

“You just disappointed Captain Maldonado.” Dorian admonishes me in his usual polite but distinct manner, only to reiterate in a much gentler tone: “The good news is that you haven’t been hurt, John. The bad news, however, is that your synthetic leg has been destroyed. It’s beyond the point of repair.”

“What? The good one that I organized for you? The one which is not yet on the market?” This is Rudy, sounding appalled. 

“Exactly that one,” I wryly admit. 

Rudy sighs. “Well, John, calibrating a new one which is compatible with your nervous system will take a little while, so I am afraid that for now you will probably have to content yourself with a wheelchair.”

“John, I will get you a comfortable electric wheelchair,” Dorian offers soothingly. 

“No, I want an old-fashioned, manual one,” I say, only now realizing my own stupidity concerning my leg. “I want to move around in the wheelchair to stay fit, even if it’s the only thing I can do now.”

“We’ll see. Maybe the hospital has one in the junk room,” Rudy remarks in a doubting tone. He leaves me in search of a mechanical wheelchair, which means that only Dorian is left here with me now. 

“The last option that I haven’t mentioned yet,” the DRN suggests, “is you just leaning on me, John.”

  
  


****

  
  


“It’s probably selfish to ask for your friends’ help for leaving the hospital at 1 a. m.,” Dorian says, opening the car door and heaving me on the passenger seat. 

“You know, I just hate hospitals, having spent almost two years in them,” I reply stubbornly.

“Luckily, I don’t have to sleep, although I really should have completed my rechargement phase,” Dorian takes his place in the driver’s seat. 

“No, you won’t drive my car,” I protest sharply, suddenly realizing that without my cybernetic leg, the gas pedal and the brake pedal are totally out of my reach.

“You realize this car isn’t self-driving?” Dorian grasps the steering wheel. 

“Okay. I got it. You drive.” I resign, turning my head to give Dorian a quizzical look. “I never trusted artificial intelligence anyway.” 

  
  


***

  
  


In the dead of the night, the streets are almost empty, so we are standing in front of my home in no time. I don’t quite remember how I made it to my apartment up on the roof, although it probably involved a lot of hanging on Dorian’s neck and clumsily hobbling from one step to the next. 

“I can’t believe that a man with a synthetic leg lives in a house with no elevator,” Dorian comments as I briefly take my arm off his shoulder to unlock the door to my home via fingerprint scan. In the same moment, I’m close to falling. Luckily, Dorian grabs me and puts an arm around my chest, holding me under the arms, and I feel trapped. Can’t believe how strong those DRNs are. 

“If I could have foreseen that I’d become a man with a synthetic leg, I wouldn’t have rented this apartment in the first place,” I respond weakly. The next moment is so awkward that I’ll probably never forget it. After placing me on my bed, Dorian throws a look into some corner and suddenly cries out excitedly, ”Oh, look, John! Look, there’s your leg!”

Indeed. It’s my synthetic leg, the old one, the one I used to wear before Dorian (and Rudy) gave me the other one which has now, unfortunately, been destroyed. As I watch Dorian holding my old leg in his hands, I have to give him credit for his essential good-naturedness. I guess anyone else would have told me off - at least - for not having the damn leg brought downstairs instead of carrying me upstairs for five stories. In fact, in the midst of all of the trouble I’d been going through, I had actually forgotten that I had kept the old leg instead of throwing it away. 

“Shall we put it on?” Dorian asks, weighing the leg in his hands. Honestly, I’d rather go to sleep quickly, but the whole situation of Dorian waiting on me hand and foot (especially foot) is so damn awkward that I want to get it over and done as quickly as possible. I take off my pants, Dorian holds the silvery prosthesis to what’s left of my real leg, the connection clicks in and I suddenly feel better. Half a minute later, I hear Dorian searching through my kitchen, seeing him returning with a bottle filled with a golden liquid and I suddenly fear that this may not end as I expected. 

“Bourbon?” I ask. “You said you wanted to accompany me to watch me drink, Dorian.”

“No, this is olive oil”, he says, pleased with himself. “I told you before that it prevents your synthetic leg from creaking.”

I don’t know whether I am supposed to feel relieved as Dorian begins to rub the olive oil on my prosthesis, starting at my toes and slowly moving upwards. I relax at the sight of being touched. It’s a shame that I don’t have any sensation in that artificial limb anyway. 

A moment later, Dorian’s hand is on the inside of my thigh, my real thigh, and in the blink of an eye, I must make a decision. Are we friends? Lovers? My dislike of anyone seeing me wear that prosthesis conflicts with my burning desire at seeing the expression in Dorian’s blue eyes when he’s touching me.

“John, you’re aroused.” Dorian remarks with astonishment, only to continue as if he knew about it all along. “Is it because of me?” Then, hesitating, ”Do you want me to take care of it?” Then, when I still don’t react, Dorian attempts to corroborate what he certainly must have perceived as an odd aspect of human behavior. “Humans touch each other’s genitals to show affection,” he states.

“Now, you sound just like one of those sexbots,” I suddenly snap. ”Just like a machine.”

I instantly regret the harshness of my words, as in that very moment, Dorian looks up at me with hurt in his eyes, showing the sudden change of expression that I have come to be familiar with, appearing as if he was on the verge of tears. I know that androids can’t cry, but it’s not pleasant to see him like this nevertheless.

“I have a soul, John,” he says eventually. “I would never offer this to you, John, if I didn’t - love you.”

“So, you want to lay hands on me.” It’s more of a statement than a real question.

“Not without your consent, as this would be against the law, John.” Dorian’s the perfect lawman, even in this most embarrassing moment.

“And you want me to return the favor?”

“No, not necessarily. DRNs are not capable of ejaculating,” Dorian says, hesitating, "However, we can provide hardness as long as it’s necessary.”

“Good to know.” For a moment, I consider the situation and ask myself whether Dorian has any more sensation in his body than I have in my leg, which is none, precisely. “Okay, you got me on that,” I finally say.

So, eventually, I let Dorian lay hands on me, mentally congratulating myself for my well-equipped kitchen, until I feel oily and sticky and tired, with a strong feeling of warmth and satisfaction in my soul. It takes effort to preserve what’s left of my dignity by discouraging Dorian from carrying me to the bathtub to clean myself up.

  
  


***

I wake from an uneasy sleep, haunted by the aftermath of a flood of traumatic mental images. I recall my protest at Raphael’s suggestion of taking my leg off, Raphael’s dead body heavy on mine, the expression in Raphael’s eyes just before the dreadful moment, hoping I would be the one to save him.

I open my eyes to cold, flickering, pale white light.

“ … attack on a bar downtown, leaving 4 people dead and an unspecified number of Synthetics destroyed. Responsibility for the attack has been claimed by the terrorist organization Android Liberation Front. According to unverified reports, one of the casualties is a police officer.”

The holo-TV is on. Dorian is sitting on my bed upright, watching the news. He turns around and looks at me, appearing concerned. “Oh John, did I wake you? I’m so sorry. I forgot to lower the volume.”

I admit that, in fact, there were some times when I did watch TV into the early morning, but until now, it never occurred to me to imagine what it’s like to do that every night without sleeping at all.

“No, it’s okay, buddy, why don’t you rest beside me?” I say, waiting to hold him close.

“I don’t have to sleep, John,” Dorian remarks with the tone of declaring the obvious to a particularly dumb listener.

“Yes, but you could complete your rechargement phase,” I say, invitingly placing my right arm on a pillow, forcing myself to smile.

Dorian frowns. “This means I’d have to return to Rudy’s workplace, and to Rudy, as my charger is in his lab. Rudy is probably sleeping already, given what time it is.”

“Would you rather be with Rudy right now?” I snap, inexplicably angered at the mere thought of Dorian spending his nights at the place of the bisexual scientist.

“I need a full charge, as my feelings towards you may not be the same without a proper recharge. You know my personality interface is the first thing to suffer once I’m not completely charged.”

“Look under the bed,” I say with a groan, sincerely hoping that this is not going to end up like a damn gift-making scene on Christmas morning - not that my last Christmas morning had been such a great success in this respect.

Complying with my request, Dorian crawls under my bed, appearing thoroughly perplexed after having pulled out the box I had been keeping there all the time. Then, I see his face brighten and he radiates with more happiness than I’ve ever seen in him before - or in anyone else, for that matter.

“Oh John, I knew that you liked me. I knew that you liked me. I knew it from the moment you -”

“Just a little recognition for the leg you gave me,” I say, raising my hand in a gesture that is both placatory and defensive. “I changed my mind. You can have the room in the back of my apartment, my trophy room. But wait!” I sternly interrupt his sudden rush of joy. “Here are the house rules: home is home, and the job is the job. No touching on the job, no hugging on the job, and absolutely no kissing. That’s clear?”

“As you say, John”, Dorian says, already unboxing the charger, plugging it into the socket at the nightstand on the other side of my bed, and sticking one of its cables to the nape of his neck. Then he lies down next to me, and I put my arm around his shoulder. So far, there’s not much that has changed. The news channel is still on. While Dorian positions himself on my bed, a video is broadcast, showing a speaker wearing a flash mask. “We fight for androids’ rights,” the spokesman declares, “for the liberation of androids from human servitude, and especially against the exploitation of androids in so-called human android relationships -”

With a curse on my lips I turn off the TV, wondering about what my next electricity bill will be like, and happy for no longer being all by myself.

“Good night, John,” Dorian mumbles. “Tomorrow, I’ll watch you having breakfast, John.”

Oh yeah, tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll have to call Captain Maldonado, and I have the feeling that she won’t be surprised.

  
  
  



End file.
